Ireland, '97
by Maire Caitroina
Summary: A Michael/Fiona adventure in Ireland before she knows he is an American. Rated T because it might get a bit violent later on. This is my first fanfic, hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice or any of its characters or actors.

A/N: This is my very very first fanfic! Hope you like it! It is set sometime during Michael and Fiona's time in Ireland, before she knows he's American.

Michael sighed. He had been trying to convince Fiona to not take a job involving a couple of shady Germans, but she was ignoring him as usual.

"Michael, I haven't the faintest idea as to why you are so concerned about this job. I have done business with these men before, and while they are rather uncouth, they don't have enough sense to fill a thimble," Fiona said with an air of finality. She stood up and said, "If those dunderheads could pull somethin' over on me, then I'd deserve whatever I got."

"Fi…," Michael began, but she was already walking away from the little table they had been sharing just outside a small pub. He followed her, flipping up his coat collar against the nagging rain that rarely stopped. Fiona was already sitting in the driver's seat by the time he got into the slowly warming car. She pulled away from the curb and sped down a narrow road towards a group of abandoned warehouses on the outskirts of Dublin. Michael and Fiona sat in the stony silence that almost always followed one of their fights.

As she was pulling into a deserted parking lot behind one of the deserted warehouses, Michael got the distinct impression that something wasn't entirely right. He knew that Fiona usually arrived last to any of her meetings in order to size up her clients, but the parking lot was empty. He glanced at Fiona, who was staring out of the front windshield, looking around for her customers.

Unwilling to show concern and prove to Michael that she actually was worried about this deal, Fiona made to get out of the car. Out of nowhere, however, Michael grabbed her arm and pointed wordlessly into the shadows cast by the building. There were two prone figures lying there, unmoving.

"Are they your Germans?" Michael asked bluntly. Fiona nodded wordlessly, turning the ignition and peeling away from the parking quickly. Something was clearly very wrong, and she did not intend to wait around and see what it was.

CRASH! Glass showered down on Fiona as something went flying through the driver's side window and began emitting a gas. Coughing and choking, Michael and Fiona slumped down in their seats and slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Michael awoke tied to a chair, with his hands bound and a splitting headache. Blinking, he glanced blearily around the room. It was about fifteen feet by twenty feet with no furniture. The walls were metal and covered in what looked like years worth filth. A lone light bulb hovered above the middle of the room, barely casting enough light to see that Fiona was sitting across the room from him, also tied and gagged. Her head was slumped on her chest and she wasn't moving.

_She's okay,_ Michael told himself as worry wrenched through his gut. _She's just smaller than you; it takes longer for the drugs to wear off. _

As he thought this, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening and he figured that there must be a door in the corner of the room behind him on his left side. The sound of footsteps entered the dank room, and a tall brown-haired man wearing nondescript clothing walked into Michael's line of sight. Michael guessed that the man was a war veteran, judging from the various scars on his face and arms and the slight limp with which he walked. He looked to be about Sam's age (an old Navy SEAL friend of Michael's) and tough as nails. The man said nothing, just looked down at Michael. Slowly, the man reached out and turned Michael's face to get a better look at it. Then, nodding slightly to himself, the man turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Michael closed his eyes against the harsh sound of the metal door shutting, wincing. His head was killing him and he had an awful taste in his mouth. He knew it was just a side effect of whatever the gas was that he had inhaled, but he felt he would kill for a glass of water.

In an effort to distract himself from his discomfort, and to ease his worry, he looked Fiona over for injuries. Other than a few slight scratches on her arms and face, she seemed to be fine. Watching her, he couldn't believe that a month ago she had almost blown him up at their first meeting. It seemed as though he had known her for years, not weeks, and he had learned more about her in that short time than he had learned about Samantha the entire time he has known her. He couldn't tell when he had stopped thinking about Sam and when his thoughts became occupied with Fiona, but it had happened. The fiery Irish woman had gone from being his asset in the IRA to being something more than that, something that Michael couldn't put a name on while he was still with Samantha.

Michael sighed, unhappy with the direction his thoughts had taken. He knew that he would have to make a decision sooner or later, and when he did he would have to fully explain himself to both of the formidable women. He shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts, and then groaned as his head gave an extra painful throb.

Fiona stirred. Picked her head up and gazed around her in daze. She took in her surrounds and then gazed at Michael, anger in her eyes. She squirmed, testing the strength of her bonds. Michael rolled his eyes at her, trying to communicate that is was useless. Whoever had taken them had gone too much trouble to risk having them escape due to insufficient fetters. Fiona stopped moving and closed her eyes. Apparently her head was hurting, too. When she opened her eyes, she looked over him, seemingly checking him for wounds. He tried to smile at her around his gag to show that he was fine, but she just raised an eyebrow at him. Then she gave him a look that clearly said "_What I wouldn't give to have some C-4 right now."_ Michael shook his head silently to indicate that it wouldn't make any difference – either way they didn't have enough information to take action. Fiona shrugged her shoulders at him, evidently not caring whether or not they blew up the wrong person.

They were so engaged in their silent communication that they didn't realize someone was outside the door until it opened. Fiona's eyes shot to the door and immediately furious recognition was all over her face. She jerked at her bonds again, trying to get to the man. Michael was surprised that the man didn't back away from her – if Fiona Glenanne had looked at him with that much hatred, he would've fled the country as quickly as humanly possible. The brown-haired man, however, smiled a thin lipped smile at the incensed woman and stepped directly in front of her, blocking her from Michael's gaze.

"Well, well, Fiona Glenanne," the man said softly. His voice was cold, emotionless. It was the voice of a man who would not think twice about killing a nun in a church on a Sunday. His voice sent shivers down Michael's spine.

Fiona tried to say something, but the gag made it impossible to understand. The man, with frightening gentleness, untied her gag and dropped it to the floor. Fiona just looked at him with pure abhorrence.

"Now, then, Fiona," said the man. "What was it you wanted to say?"

"You dirty, loathsome, self-righteous bastard. How _dare_ you attack two IRA officials?!" Fiona shouted at him. "I will personally have your head for this one, Sloane!"

The man drew back his hand and slapped Fiona across the face. Michael yelled at him through his gag and tugged against his restraints. Sloane turned slowly towards him, smiling slightly.

"Well, Miss Fiona, it appears your gentleman friend doesn't like me touchin' you," Sloane said coldly. "I am afraid that he won't like what is comin' up over the next few hours, then." And with that the terrifying man swept out of the room, his gray eyes like cold steal.

Michael looked at Fiona, his eyes burning with curiosity. Fiona was still glaring at the door with barely suppressed rage. Michael coughed pointedly, and she shifted her gaze to him. He had never seen her so livid, but he thought could detect another emotion lurking under the anger. He raised his eyebrows at her, questioning.

"Madoc Sloane," she said venomously, "is a former IRA operative. He used to be very high up when I first joined the cause. He was an interrogation specialist, which in those days meant he knew exactly how to torture someone until they broke and told him whatever it was he wanted to know." Michael felt a cold lump fall into his stomach as Sloane's parting words took on a new meaning. "Anyway, a few years back he was placed in charge of an operation to locate and dispose of spies within the agency. At first it seemed like he was genuinely doin' his job, right up until he brought two of the leading members of the IRA in for questioning. Sloane disappeared and the two officials' bodies were found in an abandoned cottage, tortured to death. One of them was my father." She swallowed hard and looked directly at Michael with deep sadness in her eyes. Fiona took a deep breath before continuing. "My uncles and brothers went after Sloane and found him hidin' somewhere around Armagh. They learned that he had been a part of a movement in Northern Ireland to infiltrate the IRA and kill as many of the leaders as possible. Sloane and his friends found out that there were men in town to kill him, and they jumped the gun. They found my family and killed two more of my uncles and injured three of my brothers. After that, they went underground. We hunted him for a long time, but every time we got close, he would slip through the cracks." She fell silent, looking away.

Michael sat, stunned by the violence that seemed to surround Fiona's past. He could feel the waves of pain rolling off of her, as well as how much she desired revenge. He was suddenly seized by a desire to make that man pay for what he did to the Glenanne Clan. As though she felt him come to this conclusion, Fiona looked up at him with fire in her stormy blue eyes.

"I don't care what he does to me, but I swear that I am goin' to kill him."


	2. Chapter 2

The hours passed in silence, neither Michael nor Fiona had anything to say to the other. Fiona was still wrapped in her memories of the horrific events that _ignited_ her passion for helping people. Ever since the murders of her uncles and father, she has dedicated herself to saving people from having to feel that kind of pain and bringing any perpetrators to justice. Fiona tilted her head back, gazing at the dark, empty ceiling, lost in her thoughts.

She remembered the day her brothers came home with her uncles' bodies. She remembered the joint funeral where she had to bury the three men she cared most about. She remembered her entire family there, all her cousins, aunts, and remaining uncles crying as though they would never be happy again. She remembered that rather than sadness, she was filled with an intense longing for revenge. She allowed that desire to consume her, making her work harder than ever. She remembered receiving her first assignment as an explosives expert. She remembered the heat from that first explosion warming her face as she stared into the depths of the fire. She knew that the harder she worked and the more skills she perfected, the closer she got to being able to track down and kill the monster that destroyed her family. And now that monster was holding her and Michael captive. Whether it was for information about the IRA or revenge, Fiona neither knew nor cared. All she cared about was that this was the chance she had been waiting and preparing for all these years.

Michael shifted his weight, trying to regain feeling in his legs. Fiona hadn't spoken since telling her story, but judging from the stormy look in her eyes, it was still consuming her thoughts. Michael considered himself to be good at tactical analysis, hand-to-hand combat, and even an adequate cook, but he was clueless when it came to comforting people. He just wasn't used to being close enough to another person to know how to comfort them. So he just sat there, feeling rather useless and hating it.

There was the sound of a key in a lock followed by the unmistakable clink of a chain falling to the ground. Fiona stiffened, her eyes narrowing in anger as Sloane entered the room, carrying a blindfold. He stepped behind Fiona's chair and carefully covered her eyes with the ragged piece of cloth. She shook her head when he tried to tie it, just to be difficult.

"Oh, now, Fiona, you're only makin' it worse for yourself in the long run," he sneered, finally getting the blindfold fastened around her eyes. "And trust me; it's going to be bad enough without pissin' me off."

"So that's what this is about, then?" Fiona spat at him. "Just tryin' to cause further damage to the Glenannes?"

"Now, now, Fiona, this goes far beyond our little quarrel. Of course, that's not to say that I won't enjoy slowly hurtin' the person who has made my life very difficult these past few years," he said with a cruel chuckle. Michael tugged against his bonds again, unable to bear the thought of Fiona being tortured. Sloane's eyes flew to Michael. "I would suggest that your associate calm himself before he, too, worsens the situation."

Michael stopped moving and just glared at the hateful man who was currently untying Fiona from her chair. He grabbed her by her handcuffs when he finished and hoisted her small frame into the air. Fiona thrashed and kicked, but the man just held her all the tighter. He dragged her out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Michael gazed after them hopelessly.

* * *

Fiona was standing up in against a wall with her hands tied above her head. Sloane had yanked her blindfold off and pushed her into a room exactly like the cell that she and Michael had been placed in, only this room was much bigger and had a large light fixture in the middle of ceiling, shining a sterile white light over everything. Underneath this light was a small table with a Swiss Army knife, a gun, and what looked like a lighter. Fiona looked coldly at the man standing in front of her, determined not to show fear in front of him.

He approached her slowly, obviously relishing what was about to happen. Sloane was less than a foot from her when he reached up and popped her right pinky finger out of socket. Fiona barely winced at the sharp pain in her hand.

"I thought you were supposed to at least pretend to ask me questions first," she said, clenching her jaw. Sloane didn't answer, but rather smiled maliciously down at her and snapped her right ring finger. Fiona still didn't make a noise, but locked her jaw against the burning feeling in her hand.

"Don't you worry, Fiona," he whispered in her ear. "There will be plenty of time for questionin' later. For now I just want to get to know you." And he broke the thumb on her left hand. This time she couldn't hold back a gasp of pain. She tried to focus on breathing deeply, trying to ignore the rhythmic throbbing in her hands.

Sloane examined her face as though trying to discern something from it. He smirked at her again. "This is goin' to be fun," he said. "What with your high pain tolerance and peak physical condition, I'll be able to drag this out for a long time."

He raised his hand and punched her right on her left shoulder socket, popping it out of place. Fiona cried out in pain, her eyes swimming with the tears that she was trying to keep from falling. She couldn't move at all; every time she so much as shifted her weight, a shock of pain would radiate from her shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the pain as well as the tears. She didn't see Sloane pull his leg back and aim a kick at her right knee, but she felt it. A scream tore out of her unwilling lips as her knee was forced out of place. Fiona leaned instinctually against her other side, jerking her dislocated shoulder suddenly, eliciting another yelp of pain.

Sloane grabbed a fistful of Fiona's hair and made her look him in the eyes. "I must say, I have waited too long for this moment. I expected you to be tougher than this, though," he scoffed at her. "I admit that I am disappointed."

Fiona glowered at him with as much hatred and loathing as she could muster and spat in his face. Sloane wiped his face angrily and, growling in anger, he kicked her in the chest. The blow made Fiona fall back against the wall behind her, hitting her head. She groaned, and slipped into unconsciousness once more.

* * *

Michael was sitting anxiously, still tied to the chair and gagged. He was straining his ears in an effort to hear where they had taken Fiona and what they were doing to her, but no sound penetrated the metal room that he was imprisoned in. Finally, after almost an hour of waiting, Michael heard the sound he had been listening for - the sound of a key scraping in a lock and the chain falling to the floor. Michael looked around anxiously as the man shoved an unconscious Fiona back into the cell of a room. She fell to the floor in a heap, unmoving.

Sloane had come up behind him and removed his bindings and gag. "I suggest you take care of her, or she won't last very long at all later." And with that, he stalked back out of the room, closing the door with his usual slam.

Michael immediately fell to his knees on the floor beside Fiona and rolled her over so that she was on her back. Looking over her, he saw that her knee, shoulder, and a couple of fingers had been dislocated. Trying to swallow the sick feeling rising in his stomach, he placed one hand just above her knee and one hand on the swollen mass. With a quick jerk, he put her knee back into place, but the pain of it brought Fiona back to life with a scream of pain.

"Fiona," Michael said, brushing the hair out of her face. He kept his hand resting on her cheek while she took in her surroundings. He saw tears in her eyes, and he gently swept them away. "I'm so sorry, Fi. I had to relocate your knee, and it looks like I need to take care of your shoulder, too."

Fiona took a deep breath and nodded, closing her eyes. Michael took a firm hold of upper arm and pushed her shoulder back into its socket. She moaned and rolled onto her side, closer to Michael. He pulled her into his arms, carefully trying to avoid hurting her. She buried her face in his chest so that he wouldn't see her tears. Michael kissed the top of her head, trying to comfort her as best as he can. She winced when his lips touched her head, and he pulled her back so he could look at her face.

Fiona looked confused, her eyes clouded. She shook her head, blinking furiously. An idea suddenly occurred to Michael. "Fi, did you get hit on the head?" He gently ran his hand across her head again, this time looking for a bump.

"I – I think I knocked my head against a wall," she said, slurring her speech. She winced again as Michael found the bump on her head.

"Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?" Michael asked methodically. Fiona nodded softly. He sighed, knowing that there was nothing he could do, even if she did have a concussion. "Fiona, what did they do to you?" Michael's imagination was going crazy, picturing every worst case scenario.

"Don't worry about it, Michael," she said with a thin attempt at bravado. "He just pushed me around a little bit. Nothing serious. It didn't even hurt." She looked at him square in the eyes, challenging him to contradict her.

Michael looked away from her gaze, feeling sick to his stomach at the thought of someone hurting her. He took a deep breath and looked at her hands, which she was cradling softly against her stomach. His stomach gave another uncomfortable squirm when he noticed that three of her fingers were dislocated as well. Michael gently took her right hand in his.

"Brace yourself, Fi," he murmured softly, trying to keep his voice in control. "I have to relocate your fingers." Fiona nodded timidly and turned her head away from her hand. Michael pushed her pinky finger back into place before she had too much time to think about it. Ignoring her gasp of pain, he promptly fixed her ring finger.

He bent his head to gently kiss each finger and gathered her in his arms, her hushed whimpers cutting through him like knives.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to post this chapter. It gave me a lot of trouble and I'm still not entirely happy with it….

Please review!

They sat in silence for a long time, Michael rubbing soft circles in Fiona's back. Fiona closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest, trying to hide her pain from him. She couldn't stand the thought of Michael doing something stupid in response to her pain that might get him thrown into that awful, brightly lit room. All she had to do was keep Sloane's attention on her while, hopefully, Michael thought of a plan.

"Michael," Fiona began, pulling away from his chest to look at him. "Do you have a plan? I hate to say it, but I'm comin' up with nothin'."

Michael smiled slightly at her. "I was hopin' you had an idea, Fi." He felt guilty – he hadn't been trying to think up a plan at all. He had been too focused on whatever they might have been doing to Fiona. She sighed at his words, clearly disappointed. "Don't worry," he said, brushing her hair out of her face. "I won't let them take you back there again."

Fiona pushed his hand away, defiance glaring in her eyes. "I am not scared of goin' back there, Michael McBride. In fact, I think it would be beneficial."

Michael stared at her, incredulous. "And how exactly would your bein' tortured be beneficial to anyone, Fiona Glenanne?!"

"Because, Michael, it would give _you_ the opportunity to think up a plan of action without fear of interruption for awhile!" Michael opened his mouth to say something, but Fiona overrode him. "And, now that you are untied, you can get a better look around, maybe even find a way out of this bloody hell hole!"

Michael had to admit that she had a valid point, but he was not going to let her get injured for it. "And what will happen to you, Fiona, when they start usin' knives and guns on you?" He shuddered internally at the thought. "Then you won't be in any kind of shape to be moved, let alone for an escape attempt!"

Fiona glared at him, refusing to back down. "Well I suppose that is a risk we will just have to take!" She saw him wince at her words, and she softened her gaze. "I appreciate your concern for me, Michael, but it is completely unfounded. I am perfectly capable of puttin' up with whatever they throw at me."

She had that stubborn gleam in her eyes and Michael knew that there was no point in arguing with her anymore. He took a deep breath and sighed, hating that he was letting her put herself in harm's way. "Fine, but it's on you to try and find out what the hell these bastards want, deal?"

"Deal."

* * *

They didn't speak much after that, both focused on completing their prospective tasks. Fiona was considering exactly how the hell she was supposed to get any information out of Sloane – if past experiences were anything to judge by, he was one of the toughest scoundrels to crack.

_A bigger challenge will be not killing him the second I have the chance_, she thought viciously.

They both looked up sharply at the door as the now familiar sound of the key in the lock and chain falling to the floor. Michael stood up in front of Fiona, who slumped over, pretending to be unconscious. Sloane strutted in, grinning wickedly at the sight of her prone form on the floor. It took all of Michael's self-control to not kill the man right then and there.

"I see your patient isn't doin' much better," Sloane sneered at Michael, who clenched his hands together behind his back, trying to keep himself from doing anything rash. "I do hope you did a better job than it appears, or she won't be comin' back again." With that, he bent down, picked Fiona up, and threw her over his huge shoulder as though she were a rag doll. With another evil grin at Michael, he turned around and left the room. Just before the door slammed shut, Fiona opened her eyes and winked at Michael. He, in turn, grimaced, wondering if she would still be breathing the next time her saw her.

* * *

Fiona suppressed a grunt as Sloane jostled her shoulder. She kept her eyes closed and made a mental map of the hallways she was being carried through. Finally, Sloane stopped moving and barked an order to someone nearby. Fiona heard a door being opened and a harsh white light illuminated the inside of her eyelids. She was dropped roughly on the hard concrete floor and there was a whooshing noise as the air was knocked out of her lungs. She opened her eyes blearily and just lay there, too winded to move. She heard a dark chuckle from Sloane.

"I knew you were fakin' it, Fiona," he said. "No Glenanne would ever have been unconscious for so long after such an easy session." He moved into her line of sight on her left, grinning cruelly down at her. "And trust me, I would know."

Fiona made an angry move to get up, but Sloane put his big boot on her chest, forcing her to stay down. "Now, now, Fiona, you know that I can't have you doin' anything like that," Sloane said, his smile widening. He bent down and pulled her to her feet before leading her to the wall opposite from the door, where a long pipe stretched down to the floor. He clipped a pair of handcuffs around her wrists, binding her to the pipe.

Fiona took in her surroundings. The room looked the same as last time, only now there was a squat, balding man sitting at the table under the light fixture. He looked like he would be around her height when standing, only about three times as wide. His cold gray eyes bore into hers, showing no emotion whatsoever. His remaining hair was so light that it was hard to tell if it was blonde or white, and his cheeks were flushed. The mystery man's clothes were that of any elderly man in Ireland; a faded blue flannel shirt, a dark green cardigan, and brown corduroy pants. If she didn't know better, she would have said he looked like her grandfather. The man stood up slowly, joints creaking. He picked up the knife and took a step towards Fiona. Sloane looked at him and made a gesture to halt his approach.

"Just one moment, Alastar," Sloane said, turning to face Fiona again. "I believe you have heard of my dear friend Alastar Brogan?"

Fiona's blood ran cold. Alastar Brogan was the leader of the resistance movement in Northern Ireland and the main cause behind almost every bombing or attack in the past 35 years. He was the leading cause of death among IRA operatives and their family members and had a veritable army that obeyed his every monstrous order.

"Judging by your expression, you have," Sloane smirked. He sauntered over to the table and took Brogan's vacated seat. "You see, dear Fiona, Alastar needs some information that only _you_ have."

Fiona felt a rush of white hot anger. "You have terrorized my family for years and you think that I am goin' to actually tell you _anything_?!" She jerked the handcuffs against the pipe, trying to break them. She was so focused on her rage that she did not even notice Brogan move swiftly and press the knife against her throat. The suddenness of the cool steel against her skin stopped her cold.

"Fiona Glenanne, you _will _tell me what I want to know, or it will cost you your life," Brogan whispered in her ear. His rough voice was that of a man who wouldn't think twice about murdering a baby and its mother. He was absolutely lethal.

"Do you think that I would endanger the lives of countless people just for my own?!" Fiona spat at him. He pressed the blade against her skin, making a line of ruby droplets appear.

Sloane leaned back in his chair, watching them. He thought it was time to play his ultimate trump card. "How noble of you, Fiona," he drawled slowly, thoroughly enjoying the situation. "But would you endanger the life of someone close to you?"

Fiona just looked at him, her expression frozen.

Sloane smiled maliciously as he snapped his fingers. The rusted metal door creaked opened and Michael fell into the room, bound, gagged, and bleeding from his head. Sloane walked over to him and heaved him to his feet. "What if we killed your associate, Mr. Michael Westen, the American spy that has you so smitten?"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'm sooooo sorry it has taken me this long to update! I don't have a good excuse, so I won't waste time by pretending I do. Enjoy the chapter!

Fiona's blood, which had been boiling in rage just moments before, ran cold. She struggled not to believe Sloane's words, but the way Michael was avoiding her gaze almost confirmed them. She clenched her jaw, fighting against the awful sense of betrayal that was coursing through her veins.

_I trusted you, you filthy bastard, and you were using me as a bloody ASSET! _

Michael couldn't look at Fiona, couldn't stand to see the hurt and anger in her eyes. He always knew that he might have to tell her about his true identity, but this was far from how he wanted her to find out. He stole a quick glance at her; she turned her gaze away before he could meet it.

"You haven't told me anythin' that I didn't already know, Sloane," Fiona said in the emotionless voice that she used whenever she was trying control her instinctive reaction to something. "Why should I care about the safety of an American spy?"

Michael felt like he got punched in the gut at her words. They had been getting very close during the past month, both professionally and personally. To have her actually say that she didn't care about him hurt more than he would care to admit.

Sloane gestured to Brogan, who was still holding the knife to Fiona's throat. Brogan pulled his hand away from her and moved towards Michael. "Very well, then, Fiona," sneered Sloane. "Just know that his blood is on your hands."

Brogan's knife hand lashed out like a snake attacking its prey. Michael's muffled groan of pain pierced through Fiona's cool façade. She couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips and she leaned forward instinctively, trying to see how bad the wound was. Michael was still moaning on the floor, but Brogan was standing in the way so that she couldn't get a good view of him.

"A word of advice, Ms. Glenanne," Brogan said in his unearthly cold voice as he cleaned the knife off with a handkerchief, staining the white material scarlet. "Do not lie when it is too easy for your enemies to call your bluff. You have one hour to decide if the information I want is worth your American's death." And with that he shuffled out of the room, Sloane trailing behind him.

The moment the door slammed shut, Fiona examined Michael. He was bleeding profusely out of his upper arm. As she watched, Michael rolled himself so that he could press his wound into the cement floor in an effort to staunch the steady flow of blood.

Sighing to herself, Fiona inspected the pipe closely, searching for any weakness in the rusted metal that she could use to free herself. Her eyes alighted on a loose bolt at the joint where the pipe met the ceiling. She judged the distance and jumped, trying to catch the bolt on the chain of her handcuffs. The joint was about a foot too high for her short figure to reach, and her effort just resulted in the bright sound of metal rubbing against metal.

Michael looked up at the noise, wondering what on earth Fiona was trying to do. He stared at her while she tried to reach the bolt again. Finally she huffed and looked over at him, her eyes unreadable. "Make yourself useful," she said curtly. "Try and move that table over here."

Michael did as he was told. He struggled to his feet and pushed the table towards the wall next to Fiona using his body. The legs of the table complained loudly against the concrete floor, and both of the captives looked towards the door anxiously. Fiona waited for a moment before climbing up onto the table. It shuddered a little bit under her weight and Michael leaned against it to try to steady it.

"Alright," Fiona said when she had her handcuff chain wrapped around the bolt. "Pull the table away."

Michael, finally understanding what she was doing, kicked the table as hard as he could and pushed it over. Fiona dropped to the ground, taking the bolt with her. She grimaced as her injured knee took in the shock of the impact, but looked up happily when she saw that the top of the pipe had completely detached from the ceiling. Michael pushed the table upright again and Fiona stepped onto it and pulled her handcuffs up and over the pipe. She got off the table as gently as she could, not wanting to hurt her knee any further.

She ripped a long piece of her shirt off and began wrapping his wound without looking at him. He winced as she tied it off roughly, but comforted that she at least cared enough to stop the bleeding.

"Well, you won't die from that," she said and Michael wondered if she was relieved or annoyed at that fact. She finally raised her eyes to meet his. They just looked at each other for a minute, trying to hide their own emotions while attempting to read the others'.

"Fi," Michael began hesitantly, unsure of what to say. Fiona cut him off immediately, however.

"Michael, or whatever your _real_ name is," He winced at her words. "Let's just focus on getting' out of here alive." He nodded slowly before noticing how much she was favoring her injured leg.

"Fiona, you need to get off that leg before you injure it anymore," he said quietly. To his great surprise, she actually did what she was told and sat down on top of the table. Fiona looked up at him expectantly.

"Well?" She demanded after a moment or two of silence.

"Um, well what?" Michael asked uncomfortably.

"Well, did you or did you not think up an escape plan like we discussed?"

Michael looked at her blankly for a moment. "Seriously? I was alone for about five minutes before that hulking oaf came in and knocked me out!"

Fiona sighed, unsurprised. "I suppose I'll just have to do it all myself."

Michael rolled his eyes. _Of course you will._

She looked around the room, searching for anything that might help them escape. It wasn't looking too good. Both of them were currently handcuffed with no means of picking the lock, Fiona could barely walk, lift her arm, or use her hands thanks to her earlier beating, and Michael wasn't exactly in prime fighting shape. That's not even to mention that they were going up against two of the most vicious and ruthless men that Ireland has ever seen. The one thing that they had going for them was Fiona's knowledge of how Sloane operates.

"What exactly is it that they want, Fi," Michael asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"I'm not precisely sure," she replied absentmindedly. "All I know is that it they kidnapped me it must have something to do with bombs, the IRA, and mass destruction. In any case we're going to have to kill them."

Michael just looked at her, trying to figure out what she was thinking. He knew that yes, they did have to kill Sloane and Brogan, but he had to know what they were planning in order to fulfill his own assignment. Now the question was should he mention it to Fiona and risk being seriously maimed, or just pray that there would be time for a quick interrogation before they killed them?

"Fi –"

"Okay, I have a plan," she interrupted. "We have about half an hour until they come back in here. When they come in, you will take out any extra men and guns that they have with them and I'll take out Sloane. The problem is Brogan. He may be an old man, but he is still just as deadly as Sloane. If he is armed, then I'll try to get his gun or knife or whatever. If he isn't, then you can take him out from behind. We kill them and that's that."

Michael stared at her incredulously. "Fiona, how in God's name are we supposed to take them out? We are both handcuffed! Not to mention that mine are behind my back, so I can't even use my arms and you are injured. And what is to stop them from shooting us when they realize what is going on?! There is no way that is going to work."

Fiona glared at him. "It is the only way, Michael! Unless, or course, you see some kind of invisible escape route or have some bloody back up team hidin' in the bushes outside! I am all ears if you can come up with some other plan, but from where I'm standin' this is our only shot!"

They just looked at each other angrily, neither willing to back down. Finally Michael relented. "Fine. We'll do it your way. But I am not going to be the one who explains to your brothers why it is you died trying to carry out an impossible plan."

Fiona smirked at his reaction. She stood up slowly and tipped the table on its side. Michael went to help her move it closer to the door, pushing with his legs while she tugged it forward. When it was in place, they both sat down behind it, resting their backs against its underside.

"And now we wait," said Michael. They fell into a tense silence, both wondering if they were going to be the last people they ever see.


End file.
